The Journey is Its Own Reward
by RenaRoo
Summary: In another world in another time, the Wayne family is known for its archeological expeditions and grand adventure... but at a severe cost to their own. When Tim and Damian are paired for a simple artifact find, they never would have imagined what would await them as a result - it's a race across the globe for their loved ones, with more than a few rip roaring sidekicks quick to jo


rahndom prompted: Oh, passing around some prompts for the week. DamiTim treasure hunters AU, think Indiana Jones or the Mummy for a good example or … National Treasure for a bad one :'D

I don't really ship DamiTim but I got SUCH inspiration for this one that I hope you don't mind I filled it out around the premise anyway with Damian-Tim as the core "team." Sorry! It's also miserably written and I gave up when I realized how stupidly long it was getting _ Sorry everyone.

Batman and related properties © DC Comics  
story © RenaRoo

 **The Journey is Its Own Reward**

The light flickers a bit at the sweeping motion Tim uses to better examine the books lining dusty, old shelves. His nose twitches at the dust, but he pays it no mind - instead tweaking and adjusting the setting of the valve.

Cherry red oil splashes within the bottom of the gas lantern but the flame grows. Becomes larger.

Causes the shadow of a spider and its web to flicker against the wall and make Tim jump, just slightly, before gathering his nerves again. He blew the dust off the line of books and began to agonizingly search for the title written on the back of his hand.

He doesn't even bother to look up when he heard heavy, quick footsteps coming from the other end of the aisle.

 _"Drake!"_

Tim frowns and runs his index finger across the bound spines of the books. He is certain the ten-year-old is handling himself just fine. There's no need to respond.

If he doesn't respond, there's a chance that whatever it is will be dropped.

(It never is.)

Damian stops, leering at Tim through the darkness. Tim doesn't stop looking. Damian doesn't stop glaring.

"Your research is _slow_ and _futile,"_ Damian hisses. "I have waited a half hour. How many more of these tomes must you process before we can return _home?"_

Home is the Clipper at harbor currently. Or not currently. They've had even more ludicrous forms of transportation stolen from them before in even more secure cities than Piraeus.

It is their luck.

"Did you finish learning Greek?" Tim asks, pulling a book from the shelf.

"I _knew_ Greek! I have _lived_ in Greece before this trip," Damian reminds him, sentences clipped.

"You lived in Athens for four months," Tim replies, shutting the book and returning it to the shelf. "And you know I meant _Ancient_ Greek. Can you translate it yet?"

Damian's lip curls. "No. But you still don't know Egyptian or Arabic."

"We're not in Egypt, and we're not looking for Arabic currently," Tim returns, turning to glare back. "So it's only me doing translations. And I'm the only one looking for the message. So we'll return to the plane when I've found the Turkish Hand."

The boy sucks in a breath, which is Damian's usual tell for being out of actual _words_ to argue with, and turns back to leave.

"And keep it down," Tim calls out as softly as he can manage, turning to the books and frowning at the increasing number he'll have to go through. "We're not supposed to be in this part of the museum. Or at this time."

He holds up the lantern and tests how far his eyes can read the spines when he hears, _"Drake!"_

"Not now, Damian," Tim grunts. "Voice _down!"_

 _"DRAKE!"_

Tim uses his free hand to roughly rub at his face, wondering why Bruce would do this to him after all the favors he has agreed to over the past few years when he hears the loud clattering of glass breaking.

Every hair standing on its end, Tim whirls around in the direction of the noise - his lantern light not reaching nearly far enough to reveal what might have happened. His heart quickens.

"Damian!" he cries out, racing down the aisle only to slide to a halt at one of the old exhibits put back in the catalogues for storage with the books. There is a hole in the display glass with Damian standing proudly beside it - holding up the ornate gloves of an Ottoman armor set.

Carved into the gauntlet is the Arabic form of the Greek scrawled onto the back of Tim's hand:

 _God's Hands_

* * *

Dick had been Bruce's ward since he was eight years old and had been all over the world with Bruce. It was on a dig that he, Bruce, and Jason Todd first worked with the Drakes.

Tim took to the older Wayne boys immediately and, for the first time in all of his travels with his parents, was happy to slack on his own projects and studies in order to spend time learning how to play stick ball with Jason or proper handstands from Dick.

It was on an exploration without the joint parties, or even Tim, that the Drakes met their demise. There was hardly a note of surprise when Bruce Wayne offered to take in Tim.

That had been the summer of 1924.

* * *

It is 1927.

The Gotham Archeological Society holds events every four months, leading to the inevitable conflict of the Society's schedule with that of their greatest contributor, Bruce Wayne. In such events, Dick Grayson usually appears with his charming smile and gallant personality.

It isn't to say that Dick particularly _enjoys_ these meetings. But he tries, for Bruce's reputation.

One that might not be salvageable given what Dick finds among Bruce's piles and piles of research in the den.

He stares at the manuscript, one that he would never mistake for anyone's but his guardian and mentor. He gathers the papers fiercely, them crinkling in his grip.

There's lofty chatting and the smell of cigar smoke from the parlor across the hall where most of the Society's men have gathered to swap stories and examine the collection of the Wayne family's most precious artifacts on display. But it is all disappearing beneath the raising hysteria Dick is feeling.

He reads the circled words and draws the connections for himself. Just as Bruce has taught him.

The doors swing open, the sound of squeaking shoes and dripping water sloshing across the den's hardwood floors pulling Dick from his concentration.

Alfred is right in step behind the two boys.

"Young Sirs, _if you would please,"_ Alfred is chiding them, his own raincoat drenched. "I do apologize, Master Richard. I know you have been entertaining this evening but the boys insisted on immediately returning home to show you -"

"We found it!" Damian declares as he and Tim ignore Alfred's warnings and cross the Persian rug with their sopping bodies.

Tim awkwardly swings his shoulder bag - thick and blocky from what Dick assumes is the lockbox - onto the desk with a wet thud.

"Where's Bruce?" Tim asks.

Dick opens his mouth, but has no words, still reeling from his discovery.

Fortunately, in their excitement, the younger boys appear clueless. "Nevermind," Tim says breathlessly, quickly unhooking his satchel and yanking out the heavy lockbox. His nimble fingers work the codes as fast as lightning. "This… He'll have to hear it later. Dick. We found it, it's-"

The lockbox pops open and reveals two decorated and ancient gauntlets. Their craft isn't what Dick is most commonly used to, having specialized mostly in Asian antiquities on his own. But they're not dissimilar.

"Ottoman," he says absently.

The papers in his hands sting.

"Don't you realize what these _are,_ Grayson?" Damian fusses, looking put off by Dick's lack of reaction. "These are the damn _God's Hands_ that Father was looking for."

Dick absorbs the information, looks at the two boys who are his precious family, his brothers, and then to Alfred.

The elderly man knows something is wrong.

He shoves Bruce's manuscripts into this suit jacket's pockets, closes the lockbox and pushes it hard into Tim's chest. The action is apparently so unexpected Tim jarringly takes a step back.

"Take it to the book room. Put it in the safe, I'll examine it when I get back," Dick says seriously.

"What!?" both boys call in return as Dick hastily moves past them and toward the coat rack which has his favorite bomber jacket - the one Bruce moans about Dick wearing in "decent company." He grabs his hat. "Alfred, keep the boys to their room. Tell Dr. Batson I apologize sincerely for leaving unannounced but an emergency came up. Tell the serving staff to not serve any more champagne. That should get the _eggs_ out of here quicker."

"Very well, Sir," Alfred says with quite a bit of hesitation.

"What? Dick! Where are you going? What's going on?" Tim calls out. "Where's Bruce?"

"I'll explain later!" Dick yells over his shoulder and bolts out of the Manor, ignoring the uncomfortable stretch of his fine suit in the cold March rain.

He runs across the grounds, on a path he knows by heart despite the sparse number of times he has dared to travel it for himself.

On the outer edge of the Manor's lands is the Wayne Family Cemetery, and Dick makes quick work of navigating through it to the "fresher" area.

"No," he mutters as he slides through the mud and slick grass. "No, no no. Please, God. Bruce."

But surely enough, as he closes the distance between himself and the freshest grave - one not more than two years old - is left gaping open. Like an open wound.

 _Jason Todd_ marks the stone.

There is no longer a body.

"What have you done?" Dick asks.

He never makes good on his promise to explain himself to Tim. But he knows the boy would understand once everything revealed itself. He instead rings Alfred from the airport locker where two of the three Wayne private planes are available.

"I'm going after Bruce," Dick says cryptically. "Tell Tim he's in charge of Damian."

* * *

Being born out of wedlock in 1917 Turkey had done Damian no favors.

His father fought in the Great War. His mother was the only child of an al Ghul' s favorite wife. And he is the only grandchild to have been produced for the family line.

Shipped to his father's home, Damian was supposed to be an offering of sorts - marry Talia and merge the American Old Money family of the Waynes with the royal bloodlines of a forgotten Middle Eastern line of sheiks.

As it turned out, his father was far more offended that Damian had existed for eight years without his knowledge.

It was also about this time that Damian was introduced to his father's three wards - sons in every sense of the word that Damian strived to be but had yet to achieve.

There was Grayson, whose stubborn presence had made him surprisingly tolerable over Damian's time among the Waynes.

There was also Drake whose stubborn _existence_ made him less appealing but more engaging with each moment they were forced to endure one another.

But then there was also Todd.

Or, rather, Todd was the ghost whose presence breathed a clammy cold into every all, room, and alcove of Damian's father's house.

Todd was a subject for whispers and sad gazes only. Damian never pressed it.

While Wayne Manor was Damian's inheritance, _home_ was the Clipper that Pennyworth flew for them to sites and cities around the world. In the plane and outside of Gotham in general, was the only time Todd's unbearable presence seemed to lift.

Father was happier away from home. Yet, each month after Todd's death seemed to mark more difficulty in convincing Father to leave.

And he never left alone anymore. Not for any large trips. Grayson, Damian, and Tim could leave without Father, but only because it gave the man more time alone with what remained of the ominous Jason Todd.

When Father left, he took them with him.

Leaving Todd alone had not killed him. Todd _leaving alone_ after being left in Gotham had killed him. Or so Damian had gathered.

To be honest, it had been two years since Damian appeared in Gotham, and the story of Jason Todd only became more complex the less he heard.

* * *

Master Tim is even _more_ studious and withdrawn in the weeks after the eldest Wayne ward left with scarce a word to what was happening. His books and reports and various other tomes collected from the family library encircle his work desk at an alarmingly fast rate.

Alfred thinks that, perhaps, it would only be responsible if he were to begin slowly replacing them on the shelf while Timothy was distracted. The boy has yet to open more than two of them.

It is obvious that despite his continuous notes and postulating, the books are not a research tool.

They are a wall.

Young Damian, however, resorts to investigating the halls of his family home with careful study of his own.

Since arriving unexpectedly, the heir to forgotten empires has never had time enough within the Manor itself to get a feel for it. To know its spacious loneliness that Master Bruce had become overly familiar with before his interests began to take him outside of Gotham's hollow promises and to cities and treasures of the past.

It is almost sad that the youngest of the boys in Alfred's charge seemed utterly lost in each other's company despite sharing it so often.

That all changes when Alfred retrieves the mail for the day and brings three letters addressed to Tim to the boy's attention.

"This is from one Miss Stephanie Brown," Alfred reminds Tim as he slides the letter onto the notebook Tim reverently takes note in.

The boy pauses and stares at it. His longtime, and often long _distanced,_ girl. The corners of Tim's mouth pull tightly.

"I assume, seeing as how she is writing rather than knocking," Alfred continues, "that you have neglected to call on her in our time home?"

He pauses, shifting in his seat before shaking his head, not daring to make eye contact with the butler.

"This is from the Society. The next soirée appears to be getting in order," Alfred continues, handing the boy the next letter. as well. "And I am unfamiliar with this particular address. I'm assuming it is one of your various contacts? There is no return address."

Tim frowns, taking the letter and, tossing the other two to the side, begins to open the letter for himself.

Damian enters the room, eyes immediately honed in on the letters. "Are there any from Father or Grayson?" he asks with as much disinterest as he can possibly feign.

"I am afraid not today, Master Damian," Alfred says sadly. "But fear not, for this is not a completely unheard of occurrence - "

With enough force to knock back his chair, Tim stands at his desk, holding the contents of the envelope with shaking hands.

"Timothy?" Alfred questions, reaching out to the young man.

"You scuffed the floor, Drake!" Damian calls out, though his eyes are wide with confusion and some fear.

"Alfred, call the airport, have the Clipper ready," he orders. He points to the door. "Damian, go to the book room. Get the lockbox with the _God's Hands_ and the rest of our equipment. The ones pre packed for the Indian trip we never went on."

"What are you going on about, Drake?" Damian demands.

Finally looking up, Tim holds out his notebook to a blank page and holds the crinkled, worn pages from the envelope alongside it. The notebook's neat, immaculate script is a sharp contrast to the erratic scribblings that all the boys and Alfred have come to associate with Master Bruce.

In the corner, in writing matching neither side, the message _'Best of Luck - J'_ stands out in bright red.

"I don't know who J is," Tim clarifies, a shine to his eyes that neither Alfred nor Damian has seen in weeks, "but he just told us where Dick and Bruce went."

* * *

Tim traveled the world over. He had seen some of the most beautiful sights in the world, been romanced by the most beautiful of songs played in cities others would only read about in books, and he had been blessed with fortune and good health over the course of his adventures.

It surprised even him when a flapper from Gotham's own captured his heart.

By smacking him upside the head with a brick.

"It got your attention, didn't it?" Stephanie Brown had defended one headache and a long and interesting discussion on how to get back the collection of Egyptian embalming instruments that Bruce had donated to the museum only to have stolen out from under their noses.

"Your father is a crook," Tim had commented as they enacted their outrageous plan without the assistance of authorities.

"Yes," Steph had responded, having the audacity to wear pants of all things, making Tim increasingly distressed at how not only they were the same size but that she managed to wear them better. "But he's not a good one. You don't have to look hard to find his clues."

They were successful.

They were fifteen.

She had a mother who worked and a father they had a hand in putting in jail. He had lost a second family, this time to crippling grief.

"If we make this a regular thing, boyo," Steph had said as they sat on the Gotham Museum's roof together, watching moonlight disappear into sunlight, "are you and the rest of the clan going to leave me behind as you pick up toys around the world?"

Tim had thought only a moment or two on the long faces and stifled air that had taken over Manor since the conjunction of Jason's accident and Damian's arrival.

"I don't think we do that anymore," he said, feeling his heart clench at it. "Not… for a while anyway."

They laced fingers together.

In a month's time, Bruce would decide to take all three of the boys with him and Alfred on a dig in Egypt. A small one, but unexpected all the same.

Stephanie Brown, Tim thinks, had never really forgiven him.

* * *

Their next stop is Morocco, which has remained fairly free of the tribulations faced by Europe. Port in Paris never sat well with Damian either way.

She sits in wait, observing as the two Wayne children and their faithful servant navigated the crowds and restocked with bare essentials.

It seems to be a fairly decent pitstop with Damian and Tim bickering over who is responsible for eating the extra rations.

They all are carrying back supplies while she begins to slip once more into the back of the plane when her landing is interrupted by a quick punch to her stomach.

The air is knocked out of her, vision spotted, before she lands in a heap on the floor, apparently forgotten by the attacker who stalks back into the shadows, a dagger shining in his hands.

"Damian, I hardly eat all of my own rations!" Tim's voice carries as they step onto the Clipper.

"I am tired of you attempting to discredit me, Drake! It was not I who ate the rations, nor was it Pennyworth. Your insinuations are _insulting!"_

There is a thud from Tim slinging his crate of supplies into the corner of the seating area. _"I never insinuated anything, Damian!"_

She uncurls, pushing herself up. Her eyes settle on her attacker whose attention is so focused on the Waynes he hasn't so much as blinked in her direction.

"Master Timothy, Master Damian, that is _quite_ enough," Alfred's voice ushers them just before sliding the compartment door open.

Seeing her last chance at action, she dives into the legs of the would-be attacker, his arm in mid swing for the butler.

Alfred lets out a yelp either out of surprise or at the injury to his shoulder - far more shallow than had the assassin made his mark.

"ALFRED!" the boys scream.

Before the assassin can gather himself, she punches him hard enough for his nose to pop. Then again.

Her heart is pounding. She might throw up.

"What in blazes -" Alfred is saying as Damian runs to him.

Tim stops halfway to Alfred to stare at her in shock. _"Stephanie?"_

She laughs, breathless. "What can I say? _I'm your little stowaway."_

It's about time she had an adventure.

* * *

The Asian subcontinent was his father's favorite. Damian learned that quite quickly.

It gave Damian hope, of course, that their journeys to the likes of India and China would slowly get them closer to Iran - the al Ghuls' ancestral home.

One of his fondest memories was learning combat skills from his grandfather - formal fighting would be expected of someone whose blood could be seen as a threat to enemies and other possible heirs alike.

Discovering his father had similar training and expected children in his care to fend for themselves likewise gave Damian a chance to shine. To excel. To _prove_ his blood.

But as much approval as he sought from these practices, there was always something dead in his father's eyes when Damian was appraised. He always seemed to be looking for another person in Damian's face.

Then, one night, sitting on the Clipper late when both Grayson and Drake had retired for the night, he decided to join his father sitting in the cockpit.

His father was looking at photographs. It did not take Damian long to recognize the woman with him.

"You look like her," Father had said before ever revealing he knew Damian was in the room.

Damian squirmed, unsure if he should return to the cots or not when his father's hand motioned for him to near. Which he did.

Father pulled Damian onto his lap and began going through the pictures with him. Pictures of Grayson at the circus when Haly's had visited Gotham again. Todd's ludicrous antics with Pennyworth. Drake's gap-toothed-grin holding up his first find of a dig.

By the time they reached older pictures - ones of Father in a soldier's gear, pictures of Damian's mother and the gorgeous and ancient home Damian knew belonged to his grandfather - Damian rested fully against his father's chest with Father's chin on his head.

"Did you ever hear R- your grandfather speak about your grandmother?" Father asked.

"He loved her," Damian had responded simply. "Mother says more."

"His stories… are like a Greek tragedy," Father said somberly. "And I believe that is how he prefers it. I can't marry your mother, Damian. But it's not because I don't love her. It's because there's something else at work, and I need to know what it is."

Damian felt his heart sink. He searched his mind desperately "But… we are not Greek, Father. You can marry mother. We are not from Europe at all."

Father smiled, running fingers through Damian's hair. "Do you like family histories, Damian? Do you know your own?"

"Not as much as you do," Damian admitted, looking to his father seriously. "… Are we Greek?"

"No," Father said. "Ra's is Arabic - Persian in descent, according to him. Your grandmother, she was Chinese. Your mother's both."

Damian made a face. "You are… English heritage? What does that mean for me?"

Father sat reflectively for a moment before settling on, "You… stand to inherit everything in between."

Damian rather liked that answer.

* * *

It is in Iran that Brown stops them. She puts her hands on her hips and glares at the boys.

"What the hell is a _Lazarus Pit?"_ she demands. "And what do a pair of gloves have to do with _anything_ involving Bruce and Dick disappearing? You said you didn't even find these until Bruce had already left!"

"Not that this should be held against me," Damian says, crossing his arms and looking suspiciously at his brother. "But I must agree with Brown. I have heard legends of Lazarus Pits before, but never of these _God's Hands_ in connection to them. And the secret of the Lazarus Pit was something passed down in the tradition of my grandfather's grandfather's grandfather's empire."

"I think these papers, the final clues that set us on this journey were sent by Dick," Drake says, his tone hushed.

Damian leans forward, following the dart of Drake's eyes toward Pennyworth at a nearby stall.

"I've been trying to figure out what 'J' could stand for all this time… And, according to legend, Lazarus Pits can return the dead to the living," he continues, his face drawn, serious.

"What are you getting at, Tim?" Brown asks.

Taking a breath, Drake drops his head. "I don't think Dick went after Bruce to help him. I think he's trying to stop him from doing something… something he'll regret." His eyes lock with Damian's. "I think 'J' stands for Jason."

"Don't be ridiculous," Damian growls. "Father would never -"

Brown raises her hands, silencing him and looks about the marketplace. The boys follow suit, realizing there is not a soul around. Even Pennyworth has disappeared.

"What…?" Drake speaks out just before three men drop from the surround rooftops, clad completely in brown.

There is an arsenal of weapons on them, but none nearly as daunting as the swords in their hands.

Damian realizes how utterly defenseless they are and how _stupid_ he must have been to not realize they were so susceptible to attack. Living in the comforts of the Wayne family had nearly trained out of him the instincts and high caution of being an al Ghul.

"Get behind me!" Drake snaps, stretching out his arms as he slides between Damian, Brown, and the men, eyes determined. "Who are you?"

"Don't be stupid, Drake!" Damian roars, only for the armed men to stop and step back in shock.

They all stare behind the Wayne party, which leads to them looking out of curiosity as well.

They are met with a young woman - perhaps no older than Brown and no taller than Drake - with piercing eyes above the scarf covering the lower half of her face.

After the pause, the men with swords take a step forward, only for the scarf girl to immediately be more than halfway toward them. Her movements fast, fierce, and controlled in ways that Damian's (young) lifetime of training can only see as _mastery._

"Woof," Brown says as the last armed man falls.

The woman unwraps her scarf and reveals a soft smile and Asian features - suddenly making apparent her need to cover her face. There will not be many Chinese girls in the Fars region of Iran to compare her to should these attackers have seen her face.

"Tim. Damian," she says, looking to the boys.

Immediately, Damian readies a stance - this girl is good. He will have to protect Drake and possibly Brown.

"You know our names?" Drake asks as the girl reaches into her belt where a paper is fastened.

She unfolds it before turning it to face them - it is one of Father's photos of Grayson, Drake, and Damian together, a rarity to be sure.

"I… am Cassandra," she says, allowing Drake to take the photograph from her hands. "B sent me."

"Bruce?" Drake asks, eyes shining.

Cassandra nods.

Damian frowns, seeing the gears work in Drake's mind. If 'B' was right for _Bruce_ … surely Drake had to be wrong. It could not, at all, be possible for 'J' to stand for Jason and thus Father truly have been driven mad by the overwhelming grief he had battled for two years since.

But, to his horror, Damian was beginning to realize… there was a logic to these thoughts.

* * *

Tim had been very cautious around the Manor after moving in. His parents' plane crash had happened so close to Jason's death - a mystery still unsolved - and he wondered if he was taken in as more of a burden than a charity case.

He was not sure which was worse.

One particularly bad evening found Bruce staring out to the Manor lawn through the den window. He might never have been noticed had Tim not decided he wanted to go through each of the Wayne personal archives and compare the stories of finding the artifacts with the items on display in the room.

It was something to keep him busy since school had been found tedious and lacking in challenge.

Bruce turned enough to see it was Tim who entered before turning back to the window.

Tim, reluctantly, attempted to continue with his initial quest.

"I sometimes feel sorry for the things we find," Bruce said, shockingly unsolicited.

Taken aback, Tim turned and waited for Bruce to continue. When he didn't, Tim prompted, "What do you mean?"

"These are little pieces of the entire world," the man continued. "They have seen empires rise and fall. They have been constructed by the world's greatest minds and wealthiest kings. And their reward for being treasures to our ancient past?" Bruce tenses. "We bring them to Gotham."

 _Gotham took Jason._

"If it's so painful," Tim said, slowly, unsure of every word even as it came from his mouth, "why not leave? We've gone everywhere in the world, Bruce. If you think it's Gotham that's the problem… why not leave?"

Bruce turned, face a little more broken than what Tim had been expecting. "Because, Tim. I keep believing… if I could bring something back, enough things that are _good_ to this city, maybe it will become good, too."

* * *

Alfred's concern for their wellbeing, while appreciated, is beginning to lose its sense of tact.

"We can't leave, not without finding Dick and Bruce," Tim says in response to the butler's stated plans. "Dick had to have been the one to send me this. He needs help. Bruce needs help. We can't leave."

"Is Gotham really the best place to go back to anyway?" Stephanie questions, sitting less like a proper lady and more like a slouched sloth against the seats in the Clipper.

"Father needs assistance," Damian agrees, eyes hard. "He does not understand what he has gotten himself into. It is _my_ family's traditions. He may know them. But he has not _lived_ them."

"After the incident in the market, I will not further risk your lives," Alfred responds primly. "We will find proper authorities, a British emissary perhaps, and have them look into these dealings. _We,_ however, are through."

Their newest associate, Cassandra, stands alert by the door of the Clipper. "I must protect you. Easier… away from here."

Tim looks to Damian. The younger quirks a brow expectantly before Tim turns and looks at Cassandra directly.

"You seemed to do well in the market," Tim says, folding his arms. "Are you saying you prefer things the easy way?"

She merely smirks at him, knowingly, before cocking her head. "No need… for chances."

"But you _can_ 'watch out' for us no matter where we go, yes?" he presses.

"Yes."

Tim looks to Alfred, serious. "What would we tell officials, Alfred? That Bruce dug up a body. That he might be defiling non-archeological digs in search for a magic puddle that brings people back to life? That Dick _might_ be with him or _might_ be in trouble or missing."

"Someone sent those men after us, Pennyworth," Damian adds, stepping up beside Tim. "And something prompted Grayson to message us in code rather than call us or send us an actual explanation. We cannot trust anyone."

"What am I?" Steph speaks up, cocking her head. "Spoiled meat?"

"You _are_ a stowaway who ate our rations," Damian snaps.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean -"

"We need this, Alfred," Tim speaks over the others. "Something's wrong. And we're so close to finding it out."

Alfred stands firm, staring down Tim. It seems, for a moment, that they've lost their argument, but Alfred takes a deep breath and waves to them to come near. All follow orders.

"This is a mission," he says wryly. "We shall operate together. No secrets between us. No lone stragglers for any circumstances, am I clear?"

"Yessir," they all repeat.

"Good," Alfred nods. "Then we shall go find Master Bruce."

* * *

He watches the next morning as they prepare to head out. He is dressed in Iranian garments, unsuspecting. There is a rifle strapped to his back and his Kris beneath his belt.

They will be on quite the journey today after they secure some horses in town, and he'll have to be extra cautious about making sure the newest girl - the one Bruce met early in his journey - doesn't see him again. She has a sharp eye.

It shouldn't be hard. He's spent the last two years learning how to track.

After an hour of following them in the town, he falls back more. He'll have to keep a closer eye out for Ra's men. If the girl hadn't shown up yesterday, he might've had to expose himself prematurely.

That would have been the situation with Dick and Bruce all over again. And _that's_ what got them into this mess.

He waits a little longer, binoculars acting as his closest friend in the difficult art form of tracking people.

Only through years of training does he not jump when Talia comes from behind him and places her hand on his shoulder.

"I took care of the last of my father's men," she says. "That I have seen thus far. There are no doubt more. What state were they in last night?"

"Distressed, confused," he reports, looks over his shoulder to her. "They think Bruce is going to use a Lazarus Pit."

"Such suspicious souls my Beloved raised," she says with a sigh. "Even his ever faithful Richard Grayson suspected him."

"No one's as on top of things as Bruce is, we all struggle to just keep up," he says, folding up the binoculars and offering a hand to help Talia onto her horse. "Hate that. Expected better from Timmy."

After Talia is on her horse, he mounts his. "Bruce didn't throw me into the Lazarus Pit," Jason reminds both Talia and himself. "But finding out who did is going to kill him."

"We won't let it," Talia promises. "And neither will they."

* * *

…

 **End (for now?)**


End file.
